Poem for Rowan

The cottonwood seeds my daughter says
make our cul de sac liminal gather around
the outside of our air conditioner.

Like a cocoon, the puffs of fluff
congregate on the metal webbing,
converging into a solid layer.

I unwind the green hose,
fighting against its kinks and untying its knots,
until water spurts from the nozzle.

The white cocoon softens in the deluge,
graying as the dirt melts into the fibers,
and then breaks into continents.

Each continent floats downward,
toward the leaf-crusted concrete;
some tiny islands loiter at the metal crossroads.

I press my thumb harder into the nozzle,
forcing the water to coax
the remaining islands out and down.

A halo around the machine, what was once the fluff
that revealed the faerie circle hidden in our cul de sac
splayed out, drowned.